Da Capo al Coda
by theJteam
Summary: "Back to the beginning and once more to the end". Post-Reichenbach & Johnlock. Mycroft gives John a new "case" involving the Inception team. This is what will turn John's world upside down- or at least burn the heart out of him, one more time. R&R appreciated.
1. Chapter 1

He sits, staring at the steam rising from the mug of black coffee sitting placidly in front of him. They've agreed to meet at Le Rêveur at two today.

"Eames."

1:58.

He looks up from the cup. There is a small nod and a hand outstretched towards him.

"Hello, Arthur." He stands and takes the smaller hand into his. "I hope you've been well."

Quite the unnecessary comment: the normally-smaller hand feels smaller than usual; Arthur has shown up 2 minutes early, instead of the customary 10; strong cologne to mask the slight (but not unpleasant) body odor; ridged hair, hasn't been washed but hastily combed through twice... thrice, Eames decides; spiderweb wrinkles in Arthur's off-white shirt- worn for four days now.

Eames smiles as Arthur takes a seat. Out of courtesy, he makes an effort to return the smile, but it is tight and with pursed lips, it's more of a wince.

As said, it's only an effort. Arthur lets the smile drop, so Eames lets his eyes wander away from his face, lets them observe the warmth of the cafe (atmosphere is set wonderfully by candles). There is a slight grimace on one of the waiter's faces as she tries to balance a tray on her right hand (a roller-blading accident, Eames decides), and behind the row of succulent aloe plants to the right of Arthur, the woman sitting at the corner table probably has frown lines due to her boss cutting her pay roll with some illegitimate reason. Ambient light from the candles throws the black and white of the cafe's wonderfully enchanting tables into a nice sepia, and with the spiral design, it's like he's looking into a perpetually swirling cup of coffee.

"Eames, hurry up, and skip the formalities. Why did you call me?"

He keeps his eyes on the spiral. It makes his eyes whirl and now he's getting a bit dizzy, but the buzz is cozy and he doesn't stop when his head seems to start pulsing with motion. The spiral and the drumming of Arthur's fingers on its glassy surface are hypnotizing.

Finger drumming? It seems that Mr. Cool-Calm-and-Collected has picked up a new habit (new emotions: panic; anxiety; impatience; frustration?) Eames doesn't look up, but his eyes slowly wander to the lean fingers tapping softly across the table.

Which Arthur notices,

and so he stops.

Well, now that Arthur's uncomfortable enough, now's a good a time as any to break it to him. Eames draws in a breath and looks back down at the spiral.

"There's a new job."

Eames is expecting Arthur to rail at him about how he's quit the business or to angrily huff and stride out the door.

But the thing is, Arthur isn't even clearing his throat in disapproval.

Eames looks up, and Arthur's face is almost as composed as it was before. If it weren't for the extra wrinkles around the lips and the slightly more ashen pallor of Arthur's face, he would have thought that Arthur just hadn't heard.

It's thirteen seconds by Eames's count before Arthur licks his lips to speak.

"A job."

"Yes."

"Regarding?"

"A woman."

It's not until Eames makes a slight face that Arthur realizes that he's raised his brow.

"A woman?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Apparently, she has some very important secrets."

"How important?"

"The employer says that it's a matter of 'national security'."

"National security?" Arthur snorts. "Since when are you working for the government?"

"I'm not. Do you really know me that little, Arthur? I would never. It's for...," Eames runs his tongue over his bottom lip as he searches for the word.

"A friend."

"A friend. Really."

"Yes."

"Oh yes, because every friend is involved with matters of national security."

Eames crinkles his forehead. "He's actually quite an important person, Arthur."

"Important enough to start again?"

Arthur watches Eames nod slowly, but in truth, both of them know that the answer wouldn't have mattered. Arthur's eyes had started sparkling at the word "job", and Eames has seen it and he knows he's hooked. It's been so long since Arthur could breathe, since he could think. Without the work, his brain has been rotting.

And now it's here, sitting in front of him, waiting to be taken, toyed with,

conquered.

"Eames."

He draws in a breath.

Composure, Arthur, he tells himself. Mustn't be too hasty.

"Yes, darling?"

"You have considered that we have no resources anymore, after what happened with-"

Eames cuts him off with a sour face. "Of course. You worry too much about the little things. Our employer has enough resources to run the British government. We're totally covered."

It's tempting. "And the crew?"

"Oh, I was hoping you'd ask." Waggling his fingers, Eames leans down onto the floor to pull out three folders from a sleek, black suitcase with a flourish. Arthur sits on his hands as Eames pushes the first forward.

Oh God, he already has everything planned out.

"Mary Morstan. Our new chemist. Yusuf referred me to her. She's been working with him on her own version of somnacin, and will be taking over for him on this one. He himself acknowledges that it's more powerful than his."

Arthur looks down at her picture, and feels a bit bare. It's like she's staring right back at him, straight through him. Her dark blond hair frames her face quite nicely, but it's her stare that gets him. Despite the fact that it's just a photograph, her eyes are beacons of power and confidence, a stunning complement to the slight smirk she sports on her face.

"Now if we're done ogling..." Eames flips the second folder open as Arthur snaps his head up to glare at him. "Sebastian Moran. Extractor." He places this folder in front of Arthur as well, as if to cut off the insult before it's out of Arthur's mouth. "Our employer found him."

Admittedly a lot less hair than on Ms. Morstan. He has short black hair parted to the left, and thin, weasel-like eyes. His eyes are half-closed, as if he's going to sleep, but the green of his irises is alarmingly bright.

"Is he any good?"

"I admit he's a rookie, but I've heard he's like a second D-"

"Continue."

It's still there. The swinging bridge that neither of them wants to cross.

And so they don't. He's still sort of a taboo subject: the one who brought the team together, but the one who's torn them apart. Arthur digs his nails into his thighs as he represses a shiver, and Eames tries to pull a smile back onto his face.

"Well," he says lightly, "We'll definitely be prepared this time! Our employer's also heard about the Saito incident, and he wants us to bring a doctor along for this." Eames opens the third folder and places it on top of the other two.

"John Watson. He's an ex-army doctor from Afghanistan."

First thing Arthur notices is the stiffness. Dr. Watson's jaw is set and the eyes look straight at the camera. The shoulders are perfectly square, and Arthur can practically piece the rest of him together, the solid, slightly stocky build with the steadiness of an obelisk.

Steady. Yes, but there's something about him that tugs at Arthur's gut and makes him nervous. Steady, but stable? There's weight on that face, wrinkles of tension and fear and sadness. And those eyes. Those unwavering eyes. Dead eyes.

"An army doctor?"

"He's seen a lot of injuries and deaths, and he's good with dealing with things quickly and efficiently. I think he's be a good addition to our team."

Arthur nods as he pushes the uneasiness down. As long as Watson gets the work done, it'll be fine.

And he feels a bit better, because he can't deny that this team is a strong one. It's good.

But there's something missing.

"What about the architect?"

Eames's smile grows wider, but he doesn't bring out another folder.

Arthur knows. Yup, he's sold.

"Wellll, Ariadne wanted back in, so she'll be coming along with us. And I _highly _doubt you'll need to see her files, Arthur."

Arthur can practically hear Eames wink after that last line, but he doesn't really care. His mood has lightened considerably, and he doesn't want to ruin it. Ariadne coming back? Oh, it's practically Christmas.

He laces his hands together and stretches them in front of him. His fingers are itching for a puzzle. He can already see it in his hands, his own little piece of impossible.

"So what's the verdict, darling?"

He can feel it.

And he'll take it.

He looks up and his eyes meet Eames's.

"When do we start?"

* * *

_A very big thank-you to thisisforyou for beta'ing this and giving me guidance and pointers!_


	2. Chapter 2

Thanks again to the wonderful thisisforyou for beta'ing this!

* * *

"You do realize that you can't keep doing this."

Mycroft has obviously never heard of the Golden Rule. Despite all the time he's been exasperated by Sherlock's cold shoulder, he obviously has no problem giving John a simple swish of a newspaper page as a reply.

But then again, the Government has never really had to abide by that rule.

"Mycroft, I have a job. I can't keep coming and going at your beck and call. This is ridiculous."

"On the contrary, John. I _can_ keep calling you, and as for your job, you of all people should know that I _know_ that you have no surgeries planned until next week. The office is happily accommodating your request for a lesser workload and you've only seen three patients during the past week and haven't even gone into the lab." All said in the snarky Holmes tone, eyes never having left the paper.

"How... why am I not surprised." John rubs the bridge of his nose, which steadily reddens from the friction. "So, what's today about?"

Apparently this is what Mycroft was waiting for. He folds his newspaper and places it carefully on the desk.

"John, I have a case for-"

"No."

Mycroft's eyebrows arch slightly when John cuts him off.

"No?"

"You can't just come to me because... _he_'s... I'm not just a replacement. You can't replace him."

Mycroft watches as John carefully skirts around his brother's name, whether it's for Mycroft's sake or his own.

"I wasn't planning on it. I assure you-"

"You know, I can't even believe you had the audacity to call me for _this, _after what you've done. Assure me of what? That I'd do fine even without him? Did you think that I'd be willing to take on your "cases" now that a year has passed? You do realise that I haven't changed my mind. Definitely a no."

John looks down to the floor and pauses to catch his breath. Composure, John. Composure.

He brings his eyes back up and stares straight at Mycroft. "This is a new low, even for you, Mycroft." And of course, John doesn't forget to add a smirk after that line, and even he has to admit that it's still sweet watching Mycroft purse his lips together in quiet fury.

"I'm not here for my brother's skills." Each word is said with a weighted pause as Mycroft reaches for his cup of tea. "I'm here because I need a doctor for this case."

John watches as Mycroft stirs in one, two, three, four cubes of sugar. He can't think of anything substantial to say. ("Cut down on the sugar, Mycroft. It won't help the diet"? No, Mycroft would eat him.)

"A doctor." Two words are all he can manage.

"Yes." There's a slight clink as Mycroft puts the spoon down on his saucer.

"And you came to me."

"Naturally."

"Naturally?" Since when does Mycroft turn to him for anything?

"Well, you've been able to put up with Sherlock for those months and stay alive (a slight pause as Mycroft watches John makes a face) and I believe that says enough about your expertise." Mycroft smiles and sips his tea. "It's hard to find someone who can keep their cool amidst gunfire."

Gunfire.

"Mycroft, what the hell is this job about?"

The smile fades.

"John, I trust you remember the Woman."

"_The _Woman? The _Woman_ Woman? Irene Adler?"

He'll take the silence as a yes. "But I thought you said she was actually dead. You said it would take Sherlock Holmes... oh." John's voice trails off as he realises how stupid he must've looked lying to Sherlock about her. He also realises that even if Sherlock had deduced that John was lying, he hadn't even brought it up and interrogated him about it.

John realises that he must've started wincing or something, because for once, Mycroft refuses to make eye contact. "Oh indeed."

Standing is tiring, so John slowly eases himself into the armchair and hangs his cane over the right side. His leg just aches a bit more than usual.

"Well, what's she done now?"

A well-tailored man strides wordlessly in, hands Mycroft a second newspaper and leaves promptly.

"Even if Sherlock didn't bother with following the news, John, I'm trusting that you've been doing so." Mycroft opens the newspaper to page 4 and passes it to John.

"'MPs Misbehaving'?" John smiles wryly. "Yes, she's certainly hard at work again."

"This isn't the time to joke around," Mycroft snaps, but John doesn't look up from the article. It's practically the tenth time John is re-reading it, but if it's to piss Mycroft off, he's willing to read it fifty more.

"I've already assembled a team of people to handle the matter," Mycroft continues, "and you'll be joining them."

"And what exactly will we be doing?" John asks, eyes still on the paper.

"Inception."

Eyes up. "And what's that?"

"Think of it as a search-and-recover mission."

It can't possibly be that easy. With Mycroft, things are never easy enough to be pigeonholed like that. John narrows his eyes. "Searching and recovering what?"

"Secrets."

"Mycroft, you do realize when you're searching and recovering something, it's something _tangible.__"_

"Oh, yes, I'm perfectly aware of that." Mycroft almost smiles at the look of confusion on John's face. "You'll be contacted soon for a debriefing." John watches Mycroft stand and gather his newspapers.

"That's it? Nothing more? You haven't told me anything _remotely_ useful." John clambers for his cane as Mycroft strides past him, umbrella swinging gaily.

"Mycroft!"

But he's already out the door. John slumps against his cane, his mind blank except for the single thought crashing through.

_Jesus Christ, what have I gotten myself into?_

* * *

As he climbs into the car, Mycroft takes his mobile out. He flips to his most recent contacts, scrolls down three, and clicks the call button.

"Ah, yes, Eames. The doctor is in. Project Dom is go."


	3. Chapter 3

"Project Domination."

John lets out a small snort as Eames introduces it, which gets him an elbow jab from Ariadne. It had been approximately an hour since he had been introduced to the team and he was still struggling to connect names with faces, but with Ariadne, it was as if John had just re-met a childhood friend. He turns and smirks at her, and she returns it with her own small and sweet smile.

"It's quite aptly named," the cleanly dressed man sitting on Eames's right butts in. "The mark is Irene Adler, currently the center of MP Adam Westing's marriage scandal and multiple others." The man (named Arthur, John remembers) waits as Eames stands and opens a large presentation pad behind him.

"You might want to mention why it's 'aptly named.' People might not get the humour."

There's almost a large swoosh in the air as the other five heads in the room turn toward him. He gives them a small smile back, fighting the urge to laugh at Arthur's face, which has the same sickly smile Mycroft makes when John makes fun of him.

"I'm assuming you already know it then."

"Yes, of course. I've met her." John smiles even wider. "She's a dominatrix by the way, for the rest of you who didn't know." He watches as Arthur's smile turns flat, Eames's growing as he sees how Arthur fidgets (John is pretty sure he hears Eames whispering something along the lines of "I'm liking this one", but his hearing is a bit shabby lately, so he doesn't really mind it). The lean one with the sharp black hair and emerald eyes (Sebastian) turns back to the board with a slight tut. John notices that the pretty woman on Sebastian's left (Mary) is fighting a giggle fit (and when they make eye contact, he makes sure to throw her a wink.) She turns back to the board perfectly pink, and John leans back in his seat.

"Well, good thing you brought it up..." Probably more biographical information he doesn't need to know anyways. John starts to tune him out, but when he hears Ariadne hissing something at him, he tilts his head to the left where she is sitting.

"That was uncalled for, John. Funny, yes, but you didn't need to be an ass about it."

John sits back in his chair. He scrambles for words in his mind, but doesn't really know what to say.

When Eames flips to the next page, John just completely forgets about saying something back to Ariadne.

The plan? _That's_ the plan?

It's ridiculous.

It's bloody _impossible_.

How was that even considered?

Ariadne has to poke John four times before he realizes that his mouth is wide open .

It seems that even Eames is a bit uncertain about it. John can hear the slight waver in his voice as he finally coughs and reads it aloud.

"I WANT SOMEONE WHO I CAN TRUST WHOLEHEARTEDLY, WHO I WOULD WILLINGLY GIVE MYSELF UP TO."

"So we want her to go for a steady relationship? Isn't she a dominatrix or something?"

"What are we, matchmakers?"

"Yes, Mary, you're right, and Sebastian, just hear this out. For this plan, we need someone who she'll trust with her life and everything she has," Arthur responds.

"You mean the phone."

Arthur nods in confirmation.

"The phone?" John hears Mary ask.

"She puts all her important things, bits of information, secrets, pictures, and such on it. It's practically her lifeline," John explains. "But why the idea planting though? If she's going to tell her new significant other the password, won't we not need to find the password for the phone?"

"Not really," Arthur says. "There are two major objectives. One _is_ the password. The thing is, even if we have the phone, if we wait for her to tell us, this might take a bit long, so this will be extracted. Sebastian, you'll be a key part in this." Sebastian nods. "And second, we'll need the actual phone itself, which is the real aim of planting the idea. Any questions?"

Arthur waits, but no one raises a hand. Is that it? Are they confused?

No, that's not it, Arthur thinks. Mary's nodding to herself and diligently scribbling notes in her packet, while Sebastian sits upright, eyes wide open and excited, as if already thinking about the mission. John is staring at the line of words, his brow furrowed, a smile growing on his face.

"That's absolutely brilliant." When Arthur looks at John, he has the stupidest, brightest smile on his face, and Arthur can't help but smile back.

And once again, John finds everyone peering back at him, curious to see what's gotten Arthur so excited. Eames is already sniggering, and it's not five seconds till Mary starts giggling as well, and even Sebastian allows himself a smirk of amusement.

"So, it's good," Arthur smiles and turns to Mary. "How many levels can we go with your somnacin?"

"With sommoritol, four levels down, and you'll be at twenty-five times the brain function."

"Terrific. Let's get this going then. Mary, get me a batch, please. I'd like to get a feel for it before we do anything official."

With a "Sure thing!," she stands and scurries out.

"Ariadne, you should start making the mazes for four levels. You can ask John for more background information."

"Sounds good," Ariadne nods, and she neatly sweeps all of her papers into one arm and strides out of the room. Arthur watches as John fumbles with his mess of papers and runs to catch up with her.

"It seem that love does conquer all," he hears Eames whisper into his ear.

"What are you talking about?"

"John and Ariadne."

"Shut up. They're just good friends." Arthur tries to whisper this back with as little acid as he can, but he practically hisses it like an angry cobra. "And what do you mean by 'love conquers all'?"

"The cane." Arthur and Eames turn toward Sebastian, who stares back at them with eyes. half-closed again. "He came in with a limp and a cane, and yet was able to run after her faster than I've seen fat kids run for cake."

"Your sense of humor is definitely better than Arthur's," Eames smiles, even more so when Arthur grimaces and lets out a tired huff.

"Let's just get started, shall we?"


	4. Chapter 4

self-beta'd and not brit-picked so sorry for any mistakes! ratings and reviews are appreciated!

* * *

"It would be nice to at least know what you're doing, since you're not going to include me anyway."

Ariadne sits on the other side of the table, across from John. Her shoulders are slightly hunched over the many papers in front of her. She's currently drawing floor plans for some building, T-square in her left hand, pencil in her right.

"I told you, I'm making the mazes for the levels."

"And I'm not allowed to see them because?"

"Because only the dreamer should know the layout. If anyone on the team knows, he or she might bring in a part of their subconscious. Silence, please."

"But why though?"

"John."

"Fine, fine." He stares around the room. Miniatures of paintings adorn the walls, and, mug in hand, he stands up to circle the room.

Blake's _The Great Red Dragon and the Woman Clothed with Sun_

Landseer's _Attachment_

Martin's _The Last Judgment_

Delacroix's _Last Words of the Emperor Marcus Aurelius_

Gainsborough's _Landscape: Storm Effect_

And then he stops at the last one, and almost laughs at it, almost cries because of it.

"The Great Falls of the Reichenbach." Ariadne's voice makes John jump. She's still staring intently at her paper, so he hadn't realized that she had been paying attention to what he was doing.

"By Joseph Turner," John twists his mouth into some kind of weird smile. "I would know." Yes, that glorious and terrible thing, recovered in one of the "cases of the century"- the case that made Sherlock's name. How wouldn't he know it? If the weight of his emotions all hadn't planted his legs right there, John thinks he might've just run outside, tried to escape this blaring reminder of it all.

So instead he walks back around the table. Ariadne doesn't say anything about the limp. She's silent, and the room is only filled by the scratching of paper upon pencil, the friction between imagination and reality, the uneven footfalls that match the unevenness of John's beating heart. John sinks into his chair and from what he can see, Ariadne's drawing up floor plans, and they look practically impossible but as he builds it in his mind, he's awestruck. His eyes roam among the papers scattered around Ariadne, absorbing and admiring the beauty and grandeur of her dreams, building them within his own mind and marveling at them.

"Jesus..."

Ariadne stops abruptly, and looks at John, who mentally kicks himself.

He looks down at the tea swirling in his mug.

"Ariadne, I presume you've heard about Sherlock." And as soon as the words are out, John resumes the mental beatdown. He honestly can't catch a break today. Yes, he wanted to start a conversation, but not about_ this_.

He stops though, when she answers him with a tender "Yes, John." Her voice is soft and _accepting_, and it's like she knows that he's all John can think about- like she has no problem with it.

"He was a good man, you know?"

"I've heard."

The tea is still, and John feels himself shrink in his jumper, back to the days of seven years old, Da's baggy sweaters, warm cuppas with Ma before bed, cuddling with Harry under the blankets during thunderstorms. He hasn't felt this in a while, this comfort. It smothers him and and he can't breathe and it's painful but it's good and he's oddly content.

He needs to get out of this room.

"Ariadne." John coughs and stands clumsily. "I'm, um, going to go see what the others are doing."

He almost misses the "You're welcome, John" over the heavier stomp of his right foot.

* * *

The laboratory door is wide open, but John stops at the doorway instead of going in.

"Mary, are you in there?"

"Yes!" her voice carries from somewhere deep inside. "You can come in if you like!"

He walks inside slowly, grabbing the tabletop of the workbench as a makeshift support. It goes down straight and runs the entire length of the small lab, so John doesn't quite mind that he forgot his cane back in the conference room. As he plods through, the scents of chemicals envelop him and soak through his jumper. There's a bittersweet nostalgia to being in a lab again, seeing racks of test tubes, beakers with odd compounds, and... microscopes.

John makes his way to the back of the laboratory and stands on the other side of the work bench, across from Mary. Mary smirks and continues pipetting something from a large beaker into small vials. "Nice sweater."

"You have a pretty nice lab coat yourself." John allows himself a smile in return. "It definitely accentuates your curves."

It's cute when Mary splutters, but John is pretty sure he looks pretty silly himself with a gigantic grin plastered on his face.

"Don't make me laugh! I can't mess this up!"

"And what exactly is 'this'?"

Mary pauses for a bit to tuck a strand of unruly brown hair behind her ear. "Arthur sent me to get some sommoritol for him to try out."

"Sommoritol?"

"You know, like somnacin?" John obviously has a confused look on his face, because it is then that Mary remembers. "Oooh, yeah, you're the new guy. You've never actually dream-shared before."

"No, I haven't."

"Well, sommoritol is a drug that can be used to initiate dream-sharing and lucid dreaming. It's a more advanced version of the standard, which is called somnacin. Arthur can probably fill you in further. And this one," she says as she ejects the tip of the pipette, "was the last one." She loads the vials into a Styrofoam test tube rack. "You want to come?"

"Sure," John says with a shrug.

Mary picks up the rack in her right hand and places her left hand on her hip. "I didn't even tell you where I was going."

"Well, I didn't think it mattered." Mary's eyebrow raises, and John chooses not to tell her that he could guess it well enough from the fact that Mary mentioned Arthur filling John in. Instead, he offers his arm for her to take and throws her a small smile. "As long as you were there."

"Corny but suave. I could learn to like you," Mary laughs and takes it, and they stride out together.

Hey, he wasn't called John "Three Continents" Watson for nothing.

* * *

After Arthur takes the rack from Mary with a small "thank you" and places it on the table, he brings up a silver briefcase from the floor.

"Um." Arthur looks up from opening the briefcase to John. "I wasn't quite myself before. I admit I was an arse. I'm sorry."

"It's fine." Arthur notes that John is relieved at how easily things were resolved, and it brings his mood up a little. "We need to introduce you to dream-sharing," he notes as he loads vials into the apparatus inside the briefcase. "We might as well bring you in right now, since you're here anyway."

John takes a seat while humming in approval, albeit distractedly. He's still busy looking at the odd thing in the briefcase from where Arthur's now pulling out what looks like IV tubes. He hands two to Eames.

"What exactly is that?"

"This," Arthur says as he presses buttons on what seems like a timer, "is a PASIV, short for Portable Automated Somnacin IntraVenous Device, used for administering somnacin to dreamers in the field. It provides meticulous control over the dosage of somnacin to subjects in the field."

"Word for word from the manual. Why am I not surprised?" Eames walks over from the couch he was lounging on. He takes the seat next to John and crouches down, fiddling with something on John's chair. "Basically, all you need to know is that this machine is using for dream-sharing and connects all the dreamers. Aha!"

"Aha? Aha wha-AHH!" John yells in surprise as his chair reclines. "What was that for?"

"Well, Arthur did say that we should give you a taste of it. Come on," Eames says, gesturing toward John's sleeve while rolling up his own, "get ready. Arthur's already under."

John pulls on his sleeve uncertainly. He doesn't really know the effects of sommoritiol, let alone even heard of it before this mission, and his inner doctor nags at him. Not only unknown drugs, but _homemade_ unknown drugs? This totally goes against what he'd learned in med school.

"Just relax." Eames places his hand on John's shoulder, and it is then John feels his face ease. He hadn't realized that he'd been furrowing his brows. He looks around for Arthur, who looks rather uncomfortable slouched in another chair. As he turns back to face Eames, he feels a prick in his arm and he freezes, but as quickly as he had panicked, he feels his muscles unravel and it's hard for him to keep his eyes from sliding shut and John feels himself sink like a stone into a black sea of nothingness.


	5. Chapter 5

Another short chapter. Enjoy!

* * *

John stares at the dot. A simple blue dot on white canvas. It's supposed to be art, but he really isn't seeing it. He stands in place, just staring, as people move around him, like running water around a stone.

"Really, you couldn't choose a place that wouldn't bore us to death?" John can hear Eames in the other room of the museum floor.

"It's art. It's not boring. It's _sophisticated_."

"If this is your idea of 'not boring', I wouldn't want to know what your idea of 'boring' is."

"It's listening to you," Arthur snaps back, and John hears the purposeful clack of his shoes against the floor grow steadily louder. John turns toward the doorway, where Arthur and Eames are finally here. "Hello, John. I hope that at least _you,"_ Arthur throws a side glare at Eames, "are enjoying the art."

"If you mean the dot, um, not really..."

"Modern art," Arthur grumbles.

"Let me change that up a bit."

"No, Eames!" Arthur's cry of protest is a few seconds too late, and John just stares as the blue dot morphs into a pin-up poster of a girl with large... assets.

"Now before you jump me with questions," Eames turns to John as Arthur anguishes over the death of the dot. "Let me first ask you something, just to introduce dream-sharing to you. Do you remember how we got here?"

John purses his lips in thought and crosses his arms. "Um, we were in the office, and..."

"And?" Eames realizes that he didn't have to prompt him when he sees John look up with his mouth open in wonder.

"And we're dreaming _right now."_

"Spot on, John. Good deduction."

His attention then goes to the person who just bumped into him, and he doesn't notice John wince.

But Arthur does, and he places his hand softly on John's arm before moving away to admire another painting. "I agree, you are pretty quick on the uptake." He moves a step away to admire another painting. "I'll do a quick review of all of this. When we dream, we can use a greater portion of our brains when we are awake. Inspiration is unchained, and you're constantly and simultaneously building and perceiving a world of your own. What we," he motions to Eames and himself, "do, is we use dreams to explore a person's subconscious, usually to steal secrets, such as what we will be doing with Ms. Adler. As for the people around us, they are projections of my subconscious. You can interact with them, and they can interact with you. As you can see," he points to Eames, currently brushing off some projections, "my subconscious isn't very happy with Eames right now."

"But it's not art!"

"Eames, shut up," Arthur shoots back tersely.

"Arthur," John calls, to get Arthur off Eames's back. "So you're saying that I can change all of this here?"

"Well, technically, yes. In the mission, Ariadne will be the architect, the one who designs the dreams, but yes, by all means, if you want to try, go right ahead."

John steps in front of Eames and faces the lady, which starts to morph as the projections stop in their place, confused as to who to target.

"Um, John, what are you doing?" Arthur's worried voice leaks into John's ears, but there's no response as John squints his eyes at the canvas, the girl in blue now forming the shape of a man armed with a gun and blue camo to boot.

A soldier.

"Wow, impressive, if I say so myself," Eames says, still panting hard from having to fight off the projections. He's then hit on the side by the flailing arm of a projection, one of many now running at John and the soldier. They quickly run them over and one of the projections grabs the gun from the soldier's hands.

"Arthur! What do I do?" John's voice is high-pitched from panic, muffled by the outstretched arms over him. He hears a thump from where the blue soldier is thrown aside. The crowd suddenly parts in front of him, and John scrambles backwards into the legs of the projections behind him in fear when he sees the projection cock the gun.

"Arthur!"

He wakes up violently, a scream kicking in his throat the saltiness of blood on his tongue. "Jesus! For God's sake-" John rips out the IV line from his arm carelessly and almost falls over when he tries to stand up. His chest is still a bit numb and he buries his hand in the fabric over his pounding heart.

"The only way to wake from a dream is to die." John turns around to look at Arthur, who is now sitting upright in the chair.

"And you couldn't tell me that? You couldn't just tell me that earlier? I was scared, Arthur!"

Arthur winces. "In hindsight, I realize that would've been better." He purses his lips. "I'm sorry."

"Well." Arthur and John look to Eames. "Now that you've been sufficiently introduced to dream-sharing," he pauses to acknowledge the sharp look from Arthur, "you'll need a totem."

"A totem?"

"Some kind of personal icon," Arthur takes over for Eames. "A small object that you can always have with you, and that no one else knows. Go for something small, potentially heavy, that has a weight or movement only you know."

John frowns a bit. "Does it necessarily have to be a weight or a movement?"

"It's preferred, but if you have another unique object you're familiar with, I guess it'll work. Why, do you have something in mind?"

John feels Arthur's hand follow his hand expectantly as he slowly reaches into his pocket.

"I think I do." He clenches his hand around the cracked iPhone.

"Don't show it to me," Arthur says. "No one else can know how it's unique."

"Don't worry." John looks down at the floor, almost smiling at the fact that Arthur had thought that John would ever show _that _to anyone. He fingers the thin cracks on the screen of the phone. He's looked at it so long he's memorized the screen, and right now he rubs his thumb over the most recent call on the frozen call history. "I wasn't planning on it."


End file.
